It's a funny thing, poetry. We find ourselves
Expressing thoughts, deep as cobalt water
And obscure as mist, riddled with metaphors
So as to better disguise the true meaning of
Our words. Why is it we have to form ideas
Into words in order to communicate? Emotions
Dare not stand up in the forceful gale of society
Fragile and frail in the face of the rapt reader.
But form them in letters, give them a backbone,
And they might, just might, dance for you on
The stings you attach. Tug slightly at your poem,
Your marionette, and watch it glide in silver circles.
And just how much, dear puppeteer, do you lie?
Do you act upon the ideas that you sing about,
The ideas that come tumbling out of your puppets'
Mouths like crepe paper from its neat roll? Or...
Do you merely tug half heartedly at the strings,
Enchanted to watch your creation, but never
To hum along with your own structured tune?

A/N:For the great Sir J.M. Barrie and everyone who has been fortunate enough to know a Pan.

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